Retribution
Apart from being abandoned in Sainsburys once, I had a pretty good childhood but one thing has scarred my young mind and I have carried this with me ever since.

I had a toy donkey on wheels called Neddy....I pushed him everywhere and he was the best toy I had ever had.

He was also a bit old and showing signs of it, so one day my dad burnt him. I had no say in the matter, he was just taken from my loving arms and burnt.

Lesson learnt.....old and worn means get rid. Dad's 70 now and beginning to show his age.

I've started saving newspaper, wood and matches :)
(6300 miles away from happiness, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 14:14, Reply)

Weejock, let's just hope it WAS your Mum's naughty bits...
O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 14:11, Reply)

Don't open the glove box.
My dad left me in the car, sat in the front passenger seat. He left me with strict instructions not to open the glove box. An inquisitive wee Weejock left alone and told NOT to open the glove box...
Of course I had to have a look.

Dear god why didn't I listen to the man!

I found a long white cylindrical object with a shaped tip. Wow! One of those fat multi-coloured biros! Strangely when I twisted it I didn't get orange biro. The Thing just vibrated in my hands. I thought I broke it.

I mean who the fuck leaves a vibrator in the car? My hands have touched what touched my mother's intimate bits!
( Weejock, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 14:10, Reply)

Purplefairy's story below
reminded me of my mate Ian's tale of his budgie. He came in from school one day to find it lying, feet in the air, on the bottom of the cage.

"Oh, it must have died", quoth his dad.

Ian was naturally upset, but he got over it eventually.

Many years later, his dad revealed the truth. The budgie had had a tumour on its arse (honestly!) and rather than pay the vet his dad had taken it out of the cage, wrung its neck and pretended it had died.

I think finding out after all those years upset him more that the initial death!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:58, Reply)

another sign
I have curly hair. In apartheid South Africa I may not have been classed as a white person it was so curly.
We all know how women treat curls, they cover it in thick goo (hair straightener, before the electric gadgets)
I was living with my Gran when I was 10. She grabbed me one day in a headlock and put this fouls smelling crap in my near afro. I remember crying and crying as this was sheer torture. I hated every second of it.

after washing it out, it had the effect of putting a cat in a dryer.

*POOF*

Yes, Snoop Dogg would have felt small next to my fro. but it was the worst thing for me.

School the next day was bad, as I had brushed it forward into what looked like a peak cap.

Thank goodness my Grandad took pity on me and we visited a barber that afternoon.
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:56, Reply)

Was it me?
There are always the signs that your folks or other don't accept you for who you are.

When I was a toddler I had a good relationship with our border collie. such a good one that we used to fight like brothers, over the dog food.
Instead of keeping us apart what did my folks do? They fed me freaking dog food to stop us from fighting.

To this day my bark is still worse than my bite
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:50, Reply)

Emma
Emma, was our dog, our lovely border collie.

We went on holiday, Emma was sent to a "doggy kennel". Unfortunatly she "died" whilst on holiday.

Flash forward a couple of years and I learn that she didnt actually die, they gave her away but figured it would be easier (on them) to tell me she'd died.

Oh and there was my favorite teddy bear that "went to teddy heaven" read "Manky so thrown out".

Oh and there the being left in the car senarios as well.
(purplefairy, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:45, Reply)

When I was 5....
and my wee sis was just a babe in t'arms. We were left alone for a few mins while my mum went to slave away over a hot stove.

The cries of my sister caused my mum to rush back in to the lounge, and wonder why her lil cherub was crying.

She kicked me.

Now, back in the 80's before children were brought up as hippies (read: soft twats who complain to the school every 30 seconds) we were told that if someone hits you, you hit them back. Well she kicked me. Kicking her legs in the way all babies do. SO I smacked her.

My mum was not impressed, and sent me to bed with out dinner. I pointed out the short fall in her little words of widom, by telling her that "she should have told me you're not meant to hit family members" God bless child Logic.

Length- I was 5 you perve.
(drain_bamaged, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:25, Reply)

Seconded
I agree with Becky Pooflake's first few lines. I couldn't begin to imagine how I'd cope with some of these events.

Apologies for blubbing
( e.m.m.y. foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:14, Reply)

...Bad Parenting
My old woman was a full on cntrol freak while we were kids, running our family like some sort of mafia don, nothing of the level of some folk on here, but I wish to offer some advice on your sweet sweet revenge...

Find the rattiest old-folks home you can, and have them sectioned! My mother lives in fear of this these days, and shat a brick when an anonomous white van pulled up outside their house on mothers day (was actually delivering flowers)...
( BulldogUgly Visit my profile to see what's between my legs, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 13:03, Reply)

I was raised
by a dog and his bovine friend.

Yes, that's right, they were Terrier-Bull parents.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:58, Reply)

My dad is the dictionary definition of TWUNT
I’m not saying that lack of a decent male role model turned me into a total lezza, I know better, but from the following examples you can see why people would think it.

I was in a horrific road accident as a kid, leaving your 7 year old to look after your 3 year old playing in a very busy car park was apparently perfectly okay in the 70s (no my surname isn’t McCann)


So anyway when I’m 10 and have to have yet another scary medical procedure which involves putting balloons under my scalp and then having liquid injected into them every week to stretch the skin so I don’t have to live with a massive bald patch for ever. Does this sound painful? Well it f*cking well was. I was a brave little soldier though and didn’t complain much until the week I had to have stitches out AND injections. This was too much to bare and I started to have a bit of a petrified hissy fit it was one or the other not both. My dad told me off for “Showing him up in front of the doctors”. He thinks he’s got nose cancer every time he sneezes hypochondriac TWUNT.


I couldn’t go to school for about 3 months and my mum couldn’t take anymore time off work to look after me so It was decided that I would stay with my jobless father(he quit his job when they got divorced to avoid paying child support) and his jobless wife. However the Saturday before my mum was due to go back to work and TWUNT was due to start looking after his child he informs my 14 year old sister that other child care arrangements will have to be made. Note the cowardly b*stard can’t face his ex wife. I had to stay with a school mates mum.

Cowardly, hypochondriac, dole scum TWUNT. If you ever need a kidney daddy dearest you know better than to ask.
(DryGoldfish, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:58, Reply)

I think I'm a terrible parent, but I don't know what I'm doing wrong.
I've noticed that my 6-month old baby has no hair, talks nonsense, and screams and cries whenever anything happens that he's not familiar with.

Yes, my baby is a member of the British National Party.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:53, Reply)

Dirty Dad
I went through adolescence in the mid-80s, back before anyone with an internet connection could download an effectively infinite quantity of hard-core porn for free. Indulging my filthy little cravings left me with few options:

1) Find it in a hedge (surprisingly fruitful, actually -- thank you, the porn fairy!)
2) Trade with friends, except that they were usually in the same position as me
3) Buy 'pre-owned' stroke mags from the rather unsavoury kid in my year at school who had somehow come upon (often in both senses of the phrase...yuk) an inexhaustible supply

...but I hit the jackpot the day I decided to re-arrange my bedroom. Under one cupboard was a neatly-closed plastic bag and inside, a pristine copy of Whitehouse. I'd never seen the like! My little man was worn to shreds.

The oddest part was having to come to terms with the fact that my Dad (I can only assume it was him, I don't think my Mum ever had any such tendencies) had a) bought a porn mag, then, b) presumably perused it and indulged his own filthy cravings and finally c) decided to hide it in MY room so if it ever got found, I'd be blamed! My father is the dullest, most straight-laced accountant you've ever met, so it was all the more surprising.

He must've known that I'd found it but of course, it was never discussed: I simply put it with my own private stash and kept quiet. Never found any more though -- I wonder where he hid it after that?

Length? I wore it down to a stub.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:42, Reply)

racist dad
Very similar to K2k6`s post 10 below, but located a few miles up the road in Montrose. When I was a nipper I was with my dad waiting in the bank. In walked a black man, which must have been unusual back then. My dad kindly pointed out the Gollywog to me(remember them on the marmalade jars?) and from then on to my young mind, all black people were gollywogs.

30 years later he is still pretty racist. Meeting my parents in Amsterdam airport a couple of years back my dad was quite happy spouting his racist bollocks in a loud voice, generally criticising anyone not white and Scottish. Wogs, pakis, wops, spics etc all came in for his comments. Nothing too nasty, just nothing very nice either. Anyone vaguealy "muslim" looking was obviously a terrorist on his way to catch his suicide mission flight too.
"Why should I keep my voice down, none of them can understand bloody english anyway" he would proclaim. He failed to realise that in a place like Schipol airport probably 75% of people round him could understand what he was saying.
(dave likes cheese, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:38, Reply)

Roll away baby
When I was just a nipper and my sister was a newborn baby, we were all going somewhere in the car one day. My sister was in a carrycot, which my dad was putting into the back seat of the car (no fancy rear-facing baby seats in those days).

However, he let go one of the handles of the carrycot and it swung downwards, ejecting my sister onto the ground, where her momentum caused her to roll under the car! My dad had to rummage under the car to fish her out.

Amazingly she slept through the whole episode, dozy little sprog that she was.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:35, Reply)

Not sure if this counts
as I did it for her own good. But, my little girl kept asking if she could have some coke, I replied with a very firm 'No.'
But being the persistent little tyke that she is, she kept pestering me and asking why not. So, rather than explaining the effects of sugar, caffeine and additives to the pesky toddler, I told her about the secret ingredient of Coca Cola, the one they don't tell people about. That's right, I told my daughter that the extra ingredient in Coke is... Monkey sick.

Oh, and I once saw a little 'un wearing a babygrow that said 'They Shake Me' across the front
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 12:13, Reply)

Becky
Firstly, some of these posts are horrific. I know it doesn’t make a snot-bubble’s worth of comfort to you all but by Jingo, for what it’s worth, you have my deepest sympathies. I am humbled by how some of you have kept your shit together under some of the worst possible circumstances. I salute you.

Hopefully sometime soon we can get this parenting lark sussed enough to ensure that our kids get the correct balance of discipline and nurturing, learn right from wrong, and have respect for those around us, without turning into either uncontrollable, angry spoilt shagsacks rampaging through our society, or timid little ball-bags.

Jesus….I thought I had it bad…..I now know that I fucking well didn’t.

Even if your parents did it to you…you don’t have to do it to your kids. Let’s evolve, people.

Right then, before I launch into a chorus of ‘We are the world’…please forgive me if I attempt a more light-hearted one.

I grew up in the seventies…my mum and dad were what I suppose you could call ‘half-hippy’. I had thick, curly mousey brown hair. My mum loved it. I hated it. She wouldn’t let me cut it and it grew at a rate of knots. By sweet sugar-coated testicles I looked like a twat.

At the age of about 6 I was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. As my mum & I approached the house on the happy day, the party host’s mum opened the door with a big smile and attendance check-list in her hand. She took one look at me, curls ‘n’ all, and said:

“Oooh, thanks for coming. You must be BECKY!”

It might be worth pointing out a couple of things here:

I am a boy
My name is definitely not Becky
I’m not even ‘pretty’ or anything – I used to look like the scruffy fucker out of ‘The Perishers’ who always carried a blanket.
I am easily embarrassed, and now it appears, even easier to be emotionally scarred

I went redder and redder, whimpering…..’erm…no….I’m Pooflake’

My mum, ever supportive, pissed her pants laughing and still now seems to bring the story up at least once a fortnight. In my family, any incidents involving me that do not heave a thrusting 100% masculinity factor gets a shout of: “Oi Becky” etc etc.

Deep Joy.

How could they do it to me? Still, I could have had a stupid name….

My mum also gave me the 'We never wanted you, you know...You were an accident' comment at 60 mph in a Hillman Imp on a slip-road in Ryton-On-Dunsmore. I was an angst-ridden 15 year old at the time.

They use the word 'accident'. I use the word 'fluke'.

Length? (suffice to say it's been as short as a pygmies’ cock ever since my mid-teens)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 20 Aug 2007, 11:49, Reply)

Domestic violence can be fun...
My Mum and my Step-Dad used to batter the fuck out of each other, they'd get drunk and just start laying into whoever was nearest. It was all very traumatising at the time, but looking back now it's quite funny to think of the things my Mum did in retaliation to her husband's flying fists. Namely;
-Stabbing him through the arm with a dinner fork.
-Stabbing him through the chest with the pointy end of an umbrella.
-Breaking his arm with the pole from a Henry the hoover. He cried like a girl after that one, and I've never been able to look a those vacuum cleaners in the same way since, I swear there's malice behind Henry's innocent looking smile.

Don't fuck with my Mum, she's a double-hard bastard and she has truly earned her nickname, The Ginger Hulk.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 11:40, Reply)

Trying too hard
A mate's mum is super crazy when it comes to her boys. she was at every sporting event and ceremony, literally screaming her lungs out to support her boys.
My first encounter with her was her walking up and down the swimming pool at a school gala shouting for her sone to win. He did.
Rumour has it she tripped the wing at a rugby game once from the sidelines....

Now she just complains that they listen to rock music and don't go to church often enough...
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 11:39, Reply)

Racism and general intolerance
parents are right funny. as the time they grew up was very much less tolerant than ours they don't quite fit anymore! Black/Indian/asian people - other than the ones they know and like - are alien to them. our town was very caucasian and the only indians ran our corner shop and our takeaways. That was indeed the breeding ground for this view being 100% true. They can't shake it. 50 years of it holding true is difficult to shift. My father in law is a barrister and has a thing about Nigerians. The only ones he meets are in court, thus his view of all his experience is that nigerians have a propensity to crime. I am sure if he wasn't near 65 y.o. and went there his view would be entirely different.
I wonder what we will take forward - that all chavs are not to be trusted, hoodie wearers are potential terrorists or that smokers are pure evil? We will get some for our latter years that is for sure. And we will be wrong too.

And gays. my mun thinks of gay men as being flouncy camp men in khaki safari suits and a neckerchief - much like the one they know near their shop and see most mornings as he waves. In my mums eyes, this is a gay man. The end. No other types of gay men exist. You couldn't be gay and wear regular clothes or be any less than a fabulously flaming queen. If i were to have been gay, she would have simply not beleived it as i don't meet this criteria.

They are pretty great parents overall - but there were some tough old times. looking back, no cash, rising debt etc.

The one thing i was told by my counsellor friend was that too many people go to counselling for problems with one parent and they find out that its the other one they have the real issues with. It normally costs thousands for private sessions by then.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Mon 20 Aug 2007, 11:09, Reply)

Generational racism
I was on holiday with my parents in Greece when we met an American guy who was a professor of economics at some big university. He was also Jewish. My parents being gregarious sorts, they invited the guy and his daughters to a meal.

The daughters were hot. One was a journalist and the other was some kind of artist. To my teenage eyes they were both prime wank-fantasy candidates (as indeed was pretty much any female mammal). But about ten minutes int the meal, the casual racism starts:

Dad: You know, in England, the blacks are taking over.
Mum: Yes, they even have black mannequins in shops!
Dad: I've seen black policemen. And you can't hit them becase that would be racism!
Mum: Yes! And if you don't give them a job, you'll go to prison for racism - even if they're not qualified!
Dad: Yes! And all they want is white women. Their own are too fat.

That's when the professor lost his composure slightly: "Maybe you should put them all in an extermination camp. It almost worked for the Jews."

It was a bit silent and awkward after that. Any chances of a hot, oil-basted threesome with the daughters had gone right out the window.
(frankspencer, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 10:38, Reply)

Toes/glue? Pah!
I had some sort of horrible skin problem when I was a wee'un -- a form of eczema (from what I can remember) but worse, and at one point it got onto my tenderest parts. Ouch.

I had to put some sort of cream on it every day, a job that my parents decided I was old enough to do myself. Well apparently I wasn't old enough to read, and my parents weren't smart enough to keep the cream in a different box from all the other similar-looking tubes of creams and ointments...like Deep Heat, for example.

My eyes still water to think of it.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 10:18, Reply)

The evil stepdad
Right then, I've alluded to this in many a post, but never actually given details.

My mum and dad divorced when I was nowt but a ickle 9 week old foetus. Well, there were actually 2 of us in the womb!

13 years later, she finally meets a guy who she thinks is wonderful. He really was a great guy, took us out for meals (we were poor), to the pantomime at Christmas etc. Then he married my mum.
The only reason he married her was because of me. Oh yes, he liked young teenage girls. He used to walk around with a condom in his pocket with my name written on the packet - literally. Mum always turned a blind eye.
She didn't want to acknowledge that he was in my room most nights watching me sleep (I'd pretend - I knew he was there).
When I was 20, I was back living at home, and mum was away visiting my twin.
Stepfather tried to kiss me, and when I yelled at him he tried strangling me - his excuse? "I've wanted to fuck you since you were 13, your mums not here!"

Of course, I told mum, she turned another blind eye until he tried strangling her because she wouldn't have sex with him 'cos he was drunk.

13 years on, I'm doing good - really good - for myself. He died 2 years ago, I went to his funeral and as much as I'd like to say how hard I laughed, I actually sobbed my socks off. It's taken almost 13 years for mum and I to work through our relationship, but fortunately we're doing good.
Real fortunate, as she has just been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and has 6-12 months.

So, I basically had shitty parenting till I was 20 something - what kind of mother, really, turns a blind eye to obvious abuse of her kid?

But you know what? If it hadn't have happened, I wouldn't be here now, in Southern California instead of Hull, and wouldn't have the most wonderful husband. Don't sit down and be a victim, kiddies, stand up and live life!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 9:11, Reply)

My first sighting of a black man
My parents are pretty OK and I had a good upbringing, but as with many of that generation they are, to a degree, inherently racist. Not at all in a malicious way, just a consequence of the times in which they were raised, I guess.

Anyway, rewind about 25-30 years from the present day. We were in Dundee for a day out and walking down the main street when a black guy walked by on the other side of the street. My dad spotted him and took pains to point him out to me, as if it were some kind of freak show. I suppose black people were fairly unusual in east Scotland in the 1970s, but even so it was a bit uncalled-for.

My dad then started doing "darkie" impressions, thankfully once the poor bloke had passed by out of earshot.

I'm embarrassed just thinking of it now.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 8:50, Reply)

To raise the bar a cunt hair:
I was two and one night heard noise, I climbed out of my cot and found my parents screaming at each other, he was about to hit her (again) and she told me to get the fire poker, so’s he’d stop hitting her, I did. So he kicked shit out of me instead.
The time she threw her shoe at him and it broke the glass in the front door, her drunk on the floor, my sis & I making sugar sandwiches cos we were hungry and him coming home to smack her about again.
She left, ran away with his ‘best’ mate-which she justified later as ‘cos he was so violent’ thinks: cheers you cunt-leaving my sis & I with a violent dad
So a year in a kids home, (read Orphanage or living hell) beaten by older kids, dorm leaders, care workers for crying, not crying, not trying hard enough, trying too hard, essentially for breathing. Or, maybe, just for being there.
Then back home to dad, with another family there to ‘care for us’ they made me drink ‘boiled rat’ if I wet the bed…I was three-pushing four at this point (BTW the boiled rat was stock cubes & boiling water, this I found out MUCH later)
If I fucked up in any way-as kids do, I was made to stand in a darkened room while they piled shit on me; coats, bags of spuds, bags of coal etc. and if I dropped anything they were then justified in beating me. Oh, and I had to wear a blindfold too while they at jabbed me with sticks.
I could go on, but its over, what I did learn is not to do this shit to others.

Length? 15 yrs ‘til I fucked off.
(mickturate if i could be arsed i'd be bored, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 8:33, Reply)

Bad Parenting
When I was a teacher we had one kid who constantly swore at his classmates and teachers. Eventually the parents were called in to see the deputy head. The kid's dad listened politely, clearly embarrassed, while he was being appraised of his son's foul-mouthed misdeeds, then said

"I'm so sorry, but I just don't know where he gets the fucking language from."
(eesnahk, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 8:32, Reply)

Conclusion...
I'm not going to write about my parent's continuous arguing and bitching or dad's (notice lack of caps) alcohol fuelled misery but I'm going to say that I'm glad (or disappointed?) that it seems that I'm not the only one that had a selfish fucker for a parent and that I hope that we, as the next generation, can learn not to be complete cunts to our kids just because we're bigger than them.

I'd like to say that I believe that my dad regrets his contemptable ways now but he's dead and prolly pissed anyway.

Fuck 'em all. Sorry, no joke to end it with.
(Audioduck So, can I haz fucking Cheezburgers or not?, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 8:18, Reply)

Twins
My mum who is an identical twin was having a stand up fight with her sibling over some shite, me being a 10 yr old saviour told my aunt to shut the fuck up you stupid cunt at which mother dearest decided to take off her stiletto heels and autograph my back with it. I didn't realise the artistic endeavour she put in until at school on p.e lesson when one of my mates commented on the 27 perfectely square scabs on my back and where did they come from. She also kicked me in the face with ski boots after I took a dive and she laughed, so i threw a snowball straight into her gob, she burst into tears and kicked me then stormed off. Never been in snow again....
(neighbour of the beast 668 has watched you in secret on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 7:34, Reply)

Creamy Discharge
Similar event only - turn the tables.

I was once married to a woman who already had four children. We went off the east coast one hot summer's day, in the early eighties. On the way back, the children, tired and hot were whinging like gooduns. This, of course, made driving all the more uncomfortable. At length, I found a convenient lay-by and I pulled the aging Citroën Dyane into it. I parked up and lectured the children about the fuss they were making. I finished up with "If you don't be quiet, I will put you out and you can all walk home!"

I gunned the motor (well! As much as you can gun a Dyane :) ), slipped the clutch and away we went. Not a peek was heard from them! Not a murmur. I was congratulating myself on my parental powers when I heard an almost whisper "What has that light come on for?" as I applied the brakes to pull up outside our house.

When the wife and I got out of the car, there was no immediate evidence of the children. It seems that, under the acceleration from the lay-by, the seat rolled backwards and tipped them in the boot, then came back empty. They thought that I had done it deliberately.
(AsADie, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 6:39, Reply)